


Brought Low

by hearteating



Category: Always Crashing in the Same Car (2007)
Genre: Humiliation, M/M, Post-Canon, shoe licking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 20:49:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13644177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearteating/pseuds/hearteating
Summary: Jim pisses Bill off and has to make it up to him.





	Brought Low

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tish/gifts).



> I hope you like this! I've been wanting to write something for this fandom for ages.

Another working lunch with lukewarm takeaway, reading over proposals and trying to figure out how to tell the Opposition Leader to kindly go fuck himself without coming off as the unreasonable one. Christ, why had he wanted to be Prime Minister again?

As if the day weren't dreadful enough, Bill chose that moment to barge into his office, waving a newspaper and scowling.

“What the fuck is this?” he snarled, brandishing the paper.

“It's a paper, Bill,” Jim replied, raising an eyebrow. “Honestly.”

“Don't get smart with me, Jimbo.” Bill dropped the paper on Jim's desk. “I'm referring to this.”

Jim glanced at the paper and winced.

Shit.

“It's an interview, Bill, just a puff piece, really.” He realized he was trying to justify himself, like a fucking child, and anger flooded him. “And anyway, you can't just barge in here without so much as knocking. Who do you think you are?”

“We agreed, Jim: no interviews without running it by me first,” said Bill. He seemed calmer now, and there was a hint of a patronizing smile on his face, like he was amused by Jim's anger. He probably was, the manipulative prick.

“No, you _told_ me I wasn't to give interviews without running them by you first,” Jim snapped. “And anyway, this wasn't planned. She accosted me at the park while I was walking the dog. What was I supposed to do?”

Bill stepped round to the side of Jim's desk, standing just a touch too close. Looming, really.

“You were supposed to politely decline and get the fuck out of there, Jim. I don't care the piece was some student dross about how you "balance your marriage with the duties of Prime Minister". I don't care that you dodged any questions that got too political. What I do care about is that we decided it would be for the best if you talked to me first about any interviews, and then you did one anyway.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake, Bill! You don't own me; you don't control what I can and can't do. I'm the fucking Prime Minister, remember?” Jim punctuated the statement with a sweep of his arm.

The takeaway flew off the desk. A piece of butter chicken landed on Bill's shoe. Jim stared as it slid off the polished leather, leaving a bright streak of curry behind. Slowly, he raised his head.

Shit. Fuck shit _fuck_.

Bill looked livid. He cared quite a lot about his looks-- his suits and shoes and all that. And Jim had just got curry on him. It wasn't even Jim's fault-- if Bill hadn't been such a prick, this never would have happened-- but Bill would blame him anyway, because he always did.

They stared at each other. Bill's nostrils flared with every breath, and Jim felt himself sweating under the pressure.

“Jim,” said Bill, finally. Quietly. Threateningly.

The sound of his name broke the spell, and Jim grabbed a napkin and dropped to his knees.

“Sorry Bill,” he mumbled. “I'm so sorry, Bill.” He wiped Bill's shoe, cursing as the curry smudged the shine. He looked up to see Bill staring down at him with that godawful smile. Jim flushed red, angry and embarrassed.

“I think you can do better than that, don't you, Jim?” Bill nudged Jim's knee with his shoe, the smudge on the toe very evident. 

Jim glared. 

“Don't you, Jim?” This time, Bill's voice was hard, and Jim cringed, flashing back to videotapes and blue plastic bags. Bill had said he'd dealt with them, but whether that meant he'd destroyed them or kept them locked in a safe under his desk, Jim didn't know. He was afraid to ask.

He didn't have to ask to know what Bill wanted him to do next, though.

Someday, he'd tell Bill to go fuck himself, and damn the consequences, but today wasn't that day.

Jim bent forward and licked the smudge. It tasted like leather and polish and curry; he wouldn't be able to eat butter chicken after this. He'd never be able to so much as look at Indian takeaway without remembering what he's doing-- what Bill was making him do. He kept his head down and licked and licked at the leather until he couldn't taste even the hint of curry anymore, and then for good measure licked the rest of the toe. Jim squeezed his eyes shut and tried to fight back the tears of humiliation. 

When all he could taste was polish and leather and his wounded pride, and he was sure his mouth was black with polish, he took a deep breath and risked a glance upward. Bill had that horrible smile on his face, and he was hard, the fucker.

“I think we should make them match, don't you?” he said, pressing his other shoe to Jim's nose. Jim glared up at him again and Bill laughed.

Someday, Jim told himself, he'd have his revenge. He'd ruin Bill, leave him helpless and begging, and he'd be the one laughing.

Someday, but not today.

He began to lick the other shoe.


End file.
